What kind of man
by killians-dimples
Summary: Emma is a colonial spy, sent to seduce British soldiers into spilling their secrets. But she doesn't feel very hospitable tonight, and her sharp words get her in trouble. Written for CS AU Week.
1. Chapter 1

She's in no mood for the solicitations of the officers leaning up against the outside of the tavern this evening – not for the way their gazes train on the bare expanse of skin at her chest or the way they whisper amongst themselves as if she isn't even in front of them. She had intentionally loosened the laces at her breast before she left her modest house on the edge of town - and while it's all a part of the job (she is nothing if not a loyal Patriot), she finds herself lacking her usual determination this evening.

"What's this?" The one at the front swaggers forward, his steps sloppy and his hat tipping sideways off his head. The red of their coats is bright in the pale moonlight, and she has to fight not to cringe when he circles his fingers around her elbow.

But, she supposes, they always seem to like it a bit more when she fights.

He taps his finger against her forearm and smiles in what he must think is an alluring call to her feminine sensibilities. She almost laughs. "What is a woman such as yourself doing walking alone so late at night?"

Perhaps it's the way in which he sways into her or perhaps it's the torched farmlands she passed on the way over to this tavern – a family's livelihood destroyed for the amusement of some invaders – but she doesn't smile as she usually does. She doesn't beguile her captive with charming grins and fluttering eyelashes.

Instead she forcibly rips her elbow away, and stomps hard on the toe of his shiny black boot.

"What I do is none of your business," she seethes quietly, shocked by the venom in her tone. She angles her chin up and stares the man down as he clutches at his foot, a flare of apprehension rising in her chest when his comrades step closer to her, their backs straightening from their drunken slouches. She allows them only a brief consideration before she focuses again on the young soldier in front of her. He can't be much older than herself, and she idly wonders if he believes in the cause he was sent for. "I suggest you let me pass."

There is nothing charming about his grin now. "Do you think you give the orders here?" He closes his fingers around her upper arm and pulls, causing her to stumble into him. Pressed up against the starch of his coat, she breathes in sharp through her nose just as he kicks at her ankle, causing her to tumble forward into the dirt, the ground hard beneath her knees. "Let me remind you, darling – " The endearment sounds wrong on his tongue and she shivers when the tip of his boot nudges beneath her skirts. " – that it is _I_ who give the orders."

She grits her teeth and stands, fumbling for the handle of the door at her back. Perhaps if she can spill the light of the tavern onto the darkened street, it will deter the men from whatever they have in mind regarding orders. She's been in tighter spots before, and she's not about to be groped on an abandoned street by a half-tossed British officer, of all things.

The door gives behind her just as he takes two quick strides forward and presses his hips against her own, his hand curling through her hair and tugging sharply in an attempt to keep her upright. It doesn't work, her center of balance lost without the support of the door behind her, and the two of them go tumbling to the floor of the tavern, her skirt pushed up far too high and his legs between her own.

He couldn't look more pleased by the development.

She raises her hand to throw a punch to his jaw but it seems his earlier drunkenness has suddenly left him, his fingers curled around her wrist, her hand pressed down by her head. She doesn't like being cornered, never has, and her defiance from before slowly pounds into a steady and silent terror. They may be splayed out in the middle of the tavern in full view of its patrons, but it is well known this property resides under the domain of British soldiers.

In short, no one will bat an eye if this man decides to force himself upon her.

"Not so fiery now, are you?" She can taste the ale on his breath and she jerks her head hard to the side. "Maybe what you need is a proper fu - "

"Just what is it that you think you are doing?"

She tries not to show too much emotion when she hears his voice, his tone bored and unassuming, but the relief is instant. She can't see much of him from where she is pinned to the ground, but the man above her freezes like he's just been doused in the lake in the middle of winter, his fingers clenching upon her wrist.

She winces and she can practically hear him roll his eyes.

"Do get off the lass." The man hurries to obey, his knee digging into her thigh as he rights himself. A whimper escapes her lips unbidden and she cringes at the pathetic noise, turning on her side and pressing her palms flat to the floorboards to leverage herself up. He doesn't move to help her, doesn't even look in her direction, his gaze trained on the man cowering before him.

"Now explain to me what it is you intended to do."

The man stutters, his feet shuffling. His comrades drift back into the crowd eagerly watching the exchange while simultaneously attempting to appear busy with their card games, eyes shifting back and forth between the soldier and the captain. Killian sneers, his lips curled up, and taps the man's shoulder.

"Did you think you would be able to teach her a lesson?" The man winces with each gentle tap. Killian always has been good at quiet intimidation. "Did you think yourself capable of such a task?"

He turns to her suddenly, his eyes brilliant blue in the dim light of the tavern. She hasn't seen him in seven long months and still - he still manages to make her breath catch.

But the look on his face, it's different.

It's wrong.

"What this lass needs," He sidles up to her, same sneer curling his lips, his fingers brushing just over her collarbones. His thumb taps at the hollow of her throat as she fights against the rage that roars back to life at his insinuation, his fingers gliding around her neck until they're firmly tangled in her hair, gripping tight and pulling. She grits her teeth against the sharp pinpricks of pain that dance along her scalp and settle into a languid warmth, glaring daggers at him all the while. "Is a firm hand."

He pushes her towards the stairs that lead to the rooms above with a rough jerk and she stumbles, her hands falling upon the banister as she rights herself. The men around her cheer in raucous delight as Killian advances towards her.

"Go about your business, boys." He swats her ass and urges her up. "I'll take care of this one."

It's a wonder she doesn't run him through right then and there with the sword at his side.

In fact, it's a wonder they manage to get all the way to the room upstairs without her punching him square in the eye.

She hardly lets the door slam shut behind him before she slaps him across the face.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?"

If she expected him to back down, he quickly dismantles that particular expectation. He rubs at his cheek with the heel of his hand, his mouth in a firm line. "I could ask the same of you, Swan. What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I have orders - "

"Mary Margaret sent you to this place. Is she out of her sodding mind - "

"I had everything under control. You didn't need to step in." He quirks an eyebrow at that and she plants her hands firmly upon her waist. "You could have exposed the both of us and then - "

A dark smile tugs at his bottom lip, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts. She flushes hot, and tells herself it's the anger. "I'd say I sufficiently maintained our covers, darling."

"Oh, I'm sure you're loving this." She steps closer into his space, her boots practically wedged between his own, her hands shaking as she fists them in her skirts. "You get to sweep right in and save the day - "

"You think I like this?" He steps forward, meeting her tit for tat as he always does, his body suddenly looming over her own. She's never heard this waiver in his voice before, never seen this quiet fury that flashes behind his eyes and makes them turn a darker blue - that of the ocean at dark, it's waves unpredictable and relentless. She's heard the stories - of his ruthlessness in battle, of how he once singlehandedly dismantled a crew of pirates attempting to otherthrow his ship upon the open sea - but she's never - it's never once been directed at her. "You think I enjoy being this person?"

She suddenly feels as if she's upon a hillside, her footing lost. She takes a step back, but he follows, a pained grimace twisting his lips. "Do you think I take pleasure in having to pretend to hurt you, Emma? In causing you pain?" She almost doesn't notice the tremor in his shoulders, the way he seems to be caving in on himself. "Do you think I enjoyed even an ounce of what occurred down in the tavern, knowing that I'm not - "

He stops suddenly, his chest rising and falling with each heaving breath. His cheeks are flushed with twin spots of pink and she would bet her next stack of coin that his ears are as well. She fights not to look at his lips, but she can feel each exhale against her collarbones - warm and damp - and the slip of her gaze is out of her control. His tongue presses against his teeth and the desire to kiss him is sudden and fierce - the knot in her chest telling her to take - to turn this anger and fear curling in her gut into something more useful. He could have been killed. He could have been killed because of her.

She hardly feels his palm against the small of her back, just sways further into his embrace, her own hands fisting in the heavy material of his jacket.

She feels as if she's upon that hillside still, teetering on the precipice. "You're not what?"

His gaze blinks back to hers, the storm she sees only exhaustion. She wonders when the last time he slept was - if the missions Mary Margaret has him running weigh too heavy upon his shoulders. He forces a smile and for the scant space between them, she suddenly feels leagues away.

"We should get some rest." He nods towards the bed, folding his hands behind his back as he ducks out of her embrace. Her hands hold their position raised in fists in front of her until she lowers them slowly to her sides, palms sweaty against her bodice. "I'll take the floor - "

"Killian - "

He shakes his head, a hard jerk, and the knot in her chest tightens. "No, I shall take the floor. You can't return downstairs tonight. They need to think - " He gestures between them, swallowing hard. His eyes dart to hers briefly and he bends his knees in a slight bow, all awkward angles and tense shoulders. "Madam Swan."

She wants to tell him that he's being ridiculous, that he doesn't need to address her so formally when they are sharing a room and he's just saved her from her own stupidity. But the words don't come, stuck in her throat instead, her own fears and demons rising up and mocking her.

She watches as he shrugs out of his jacket and folds it beneath his head, his long legs crossed at the ankle and his back to her.

She suddenly feels like crying.

She bites her lip and tucks herself into the bed, pulling the sheets over her shoulders and hoping the rustling of the well worn material masks her ragged breathing. She can't remember the last time she cried - can't remember the last time she felt so alone - and she presses her fingers hard against her closed eyes until she sees spots.

The room dims when he blows out the candle, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing aloud.

"Goodnight, Emma."

She bites until she tastes copper on her tongue.

"Goodnight, Killian."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Everyone has been so very kind with their response to this little story. I am beyond pleased that you muffins are enjoying it. I just wanted to let you know that this is less of a story, and more a series of drabbles in the same universe, so it won't be getting the full multi-chapter treatment. It's just a fun world to play in. :) Hope you enjoy this little baby bit!_

 _-/-_

She doesn't see him again for three weeks.

When she does, he's sitting on the deck of his ship; legs crossed neatly at the ankles, his black boots shining in the setting sun. He doesn't look up from the tedious task of sharpening his blade as the heels of her boots click neatly against the aged wood, but a smile does quirk the corners of his lips and she assumes she's been forgiven.

"I thought Mary Margaret told you to retire somewhere safe."

She had received the message early in the morning – _take shelter this evening._ Messages sent in Mary Margaret's quick and messy scrawl typically meant that a raid or attack was being planned for later in the day, and it would be in her best interest to stay indoors. Avoid the hazards of crossfire.

Naturally, she had immediately ventured from her home.

She watches the easy movement of his hands over the blade – back and forth, back and forth – his wrist twisting lightly with each pass.

"Am I not safe aboard your ship, Captain?"

He sighs and looks up, and she's struck again with how tired he looks. It feels like just yesterday they were standing in the candlelight of that room in the tavern, the same weary lines etched around his eyes. Except now there are deep purple circles beneath as well and while he's clearly tried to comb his hair into some order of semblancy – it sticks up in the back. Riotous tufts that tell her he's been combing his fingers through it over and over, the way he does when he is particularly agitated about one thing or another.

"You should not be here, Swan."

"Relax," She lifts her skirts up around her ankles and walks to his side, sliding down against the crate he's using as a chair and making sure to tuck herself out of view. She had been diligent in her journey down to the docks, pulling her hood over her head and keeping a careful watch of the comings and goings of the British soldiers. "There were no men about when I came aboard."

"You still should not be here." He grumbles, back to turning his wrist over his blade, and she stills.

"Am I – " She swallows hard to rid the tremor from her voice, busying herself with the laces of her boot instead of looking up at him. "Am I no longer welcome aboard your vessel?"

She doesn't know what she will do if he says yes. She knows things between them are complicated – they've _always_ been complicated – but it doesn't mean she doesn't like the easy calm that settles in her chest whenever he is close. The way she forgets about everything else – the war, the burned churches, the aching loneliness that keeps her awake at night – when he arches an eyebrow at her and makes a quip about her hair or her boots or her inability to wield a blade without nearly costing him an ear.

Her breath comes shorter the longer she waits for an answer, and she begins to wonder if she can just pitch herself off the railing – sink down to the depths and forget this conversation ever happened.

She stands on shaking legs with no small amount of effort, heart somewhere in her throat as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn't dare look at him. She doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

(Poor little lost girl with nowhere to go – choosing to hide out on the enemy's ship instead of going home by herself.)

"I'll just – "

"Emma." He loops his hand around her wrist before she gets two steps towards the gang plank, his palm rough and warm against her pulse point. He curses under his breath when she still doesn't meet his gaze and tugs a bit harder, not relenting until she is tucked back into her hiding space next to him.

"You are always welcome on this ship. Always." He releases her wrist and trails his fingertips over the back of her hand instead, a gentleness in his touch that was missing as he pulled the sharpening stone over his sword. Her skin tingles with the touch of it, and she remember how it felt to have his palm pressed against the small of her back, her nose brushing his jaw and her heart hammering in her chest.

She finally meets his gaze, and it seems he's remembering their shared moment as well. His eyes are the same shade of blue and he doesn't look tired as much as – alert. Just a touch of apprehensive and –

Amused. Definitely amused.

"What were you going to say? That night?"

He blinks quickly, thick eyelashes brushing the apples of his cheeks, and she can't help her grin when he blushes. "Oh, uh – " He scratches behind his ear and takes his place back on his crate, long legs stretched out in front of him. His gaze searches the horizon for a brief moment, seemingly gathering his courage, before he looks back to her from the corner of his eye.

"I was merely going to point out that I was not – " He huffs out a sharp breath through his nose and drops his shoulder. "I was not fit for sober decision making. I had quite a few glasses of rum before you arrived at the tavern."

 _Lie._

Part of what makes her such an invaluable asset to the cause is her ability to spot a lie from a league away. But he's still shifting back and forth uncomfortably – blush rising with every moment of tense silence – so she decides to let it go. For now.

She pulls an apple from inside her cloak, rubbing it back and forth over the well-worn material of her skirt. "You're lying to me, but that's alright." If he's surprised by her assertion, he certainly doesn't show it. He just quirks a smile and knocks his head back against the mast, bouncing the blunt side of his sword on his knee. "We all have our secrets."

His grin is wide and boyish, and she feels the echo of it on her own features.

"Aye, love. That we do."


End file.
